NDA Adventure
by Cypher7
Summary: Suppose Ana was not the first to have Christian wanting 'more'. Perhaps another encounter contributed to his coldness and sadism.
1. Chapter 1

_Whew! So very glad that's over. _

I lounged in the big tub, fragrant bubbles heaped up to my neck, the sweet heat slowly leaching the stress out of my muscles. This was my little treat to myself. A trio of candles on the counter providing the only light, soft jazz dancing in the background, and a hot pampering bath with the evocative scent of sandalwood cocooning me. First time home in three weeks. I'd burst in the door, dumped my purse and carry-on bag on the bed, my coat landing in a crumpled heap on the floor, and now there was a trail of clothes that led to the bathroom and my little slice of heaven. I sighed, slid down further, leaned my head back onto the cushion and let my cares drift away.

The book signing tour had been brutal. Funny how they never tell you about that side of it when they're trying to get you to agree to go. But my editor had insisted, saying it would promote sales. Right. Three weeks of same old, same old, just a different day in a different city. It was just like living some Twilight Zone remake of the movie 'Groundhog Day'. Over and over and over, ad nauseum. Wake up, get appropriately dressed and made-up, get hair styled, get a quick bite then off to the local bookstore. Read a few chapters for the horde, answer inane questions, sit at the perennially wobbly folding table on the hard folding chair (note to self – make an appointment with the chiropractor!), get writer's cramp, then paste on the smile and thank the store manager while he's gushing all over you thanking you for the big bump in register receipts. Get lunch, get a nap, go to another store and do it again. Then dinner, and yet another hotel bed (funny how the rooms all seemed the same!). After the first couple of days, I couldn't have said what town we were in, nor even what day it was.

My publicist tells me it worked wonders, so I suppose that's something. Seeing my book's title on the top ten New York Times' bestseller list didn't hurt anything either. I sighed, contented, thought back to my college professor, Dr. Stanson. He was known to be a hard ass when it came to creative writing, but somehow he liked my stuff, even encouraged me to pursue a career in writing. He had planted the seed, and now, two years after receiving my degree, I was a published author. "Write what you know," he'd always told the class. Boy, did I ever!

An hour later, I was wrapped in my fave old sweats, heading into the kitchen for some wine. Walking past the breakfast bar, I noticed the light blinking on my answering machine. Hm, odd. Anyone who knows me knows to call my cellphone. My eyebrows shot up when I saw 32 messages! What? Intrigued, I hit the playback button.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?! Call me immediately!" –click–

"I ordered you to call me!" –click–

"Pick up the phone, dammit!" –click–

The messages followed mostly the same vein, except for the latest one.

"If I don't hear from you soon, you'll be hearing from my legal team."

I pressed 'Erase All', smiling to myself. Yes, some things never changed. Apparently some people never changed either. Perhaps the phone somehow sensed my proximity, began ringing. I looked at the caller ID, unsurprised to see the name that went with the messages. Time for some fun.

"Hello?"

"What in the fucking HELL do you think you're doing?!"

I smiled, struggling to keep the laughter out of my voice.

"Who is this?"

"You KNOW who this is!" he roared.

Of course I did. I'd been expecting to hear from him since signing the book deal.

"Tut, tut. I think you might be exceeding the FCC's decibel limit. And I do believe they frown on profanity over the phone."

Oh, I was certain he was livid by now. Nothing like poking a snarly bear with a stick. There was dead silence on the phone, and I could just picture him, eyes squeezed shut, shaking with rage, scrambling to regain his precious control. His next words were almost a growl through clenched teeth.

"You signed A FUCKING NDA!"

Was that spitting I heard? Oooh! Poked with a stick while twisting his tail. Ah, payback was indeed a bitch, and she was in my corner.

"Indeed I did. Your point?"

"YOU CAN'T WRITE ABOUT WHAT WE DID!"

"Oh, but I can. I reread my copy of the NDA several times, even had my legal representative go over it for his expert opinion." I heard a gasp over the line. Good, he was listening. "His legal opinion was that the NDA covered the contract period between us, not the NDA itself. Nor did it, in any way, have any bearing on my Writing. A. Work. Of. FICTION."

More silence from him, for several long heartbeats. I'm sure I'd just given Mr. Control Freak something to gnaw on.

"I ought to sue your ass!" he spit venomously.

"Silly old man. We both know you won't lift a finger."

He was hardly old. A perfect male Adonis when I'd been under contract for three months.

Gosh, was it three years ago already?

"You know I have the legal resources to do it."

"Oh please. It's an empty threat and we both know it. Of course, I would be very happy if you tried bringing suit."

"What? Why?"

Ah, that threw him. I knew it would. He always had to be in control and now I'd thrown an unaccounted-for variable at him.

"Having you bring suit would intimate that my book was something more than pure fiction. Once the tabloids got hold of that, I suspect the book sales would soar. Of course, it would also bring some intense scrutiny your way as well. Are you really prepared to shoot yourself in the foot?"

Ah, that profound silence on the line. Had to give him credit, he was always very clever, able to size up spreadsheets at a glance, able to read people from the most subtle signs. Now he was using that sharp mind to analyze the various outcomes from his threatened actions. Like a couple of grandmasters facing off over the chess board, I'd just moved and declared 'Check'.

"You'd suffer as well. Your life would also go under the microscope. Plus, you'd be out several million when I won the suit."

"Ah, but the difference between us is that it wouldn't matter if my life went under the microscope. Not a bit. In fact, it would just add to my popularity and provide fodder for my next book. As for winning the suit, I suggest not counting your chickens just yet. You would have to PROVE that my writing has revealed anything from our contract period. I'd love to see that. So would the tabloids."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

Now THAT tone I recognized – the hurt fairly dripped from his words.

"You're doing this to yourself. I've moved on, got my degree. After college, I decided to write for a living, and now my very first book has turned into a bestseller. My editor is already making noises about a sequel."

"You realize no Dom is ever going to touch you again, given what you've revealed."

"Irrelevant. If you recall, it was me who refused to renew our contract, despite all your little 'incentives'. I've walked away from that life and fashioned a better one for myself."

Had to give him credit; he'd tried poking back at me, getting in his last licks. Tried, and failed. So predictable.

I remembered clearly the last few times I'd seen him during the contract period. Something in his attitude had changed. Yes, he still appeared intimidating, but there was something in his touch, it was .. gentler. He ordered me to look at him, and there was a new something in those hooded gray eyes when he looked back at me. I'm sure any other sub would have been over the moon to have a Dom such as him begin falling in love with them. The signs were quite apparent. I was certain of his feelings when he asked to extend the contract, his incentives including a fully paid luxury condo with staff, a new car of my choosing, complete new wardrobe and an 'allowance' of $1 million. He even surprised me, presented his renewal offer over dinner at his club, complete with the gift of a diamond necklace and earrings. He'd looked so completely lost when I'd turned him down flat, then walked away.

He was the third Dom I'd had. From the very beginning, when I'd gotten into the lifestyle, I had a purpose. I was going to write a book about being a submissive, reveal to the world what the lifestyle involved, how it felt, try to explain the complex dynamics and answer the 'why'. Thankfully I always did have a high threshold for pain, and I was enough of an actress to let my Doms believe that they were pushing me to the limits of my tolerance. Call it research, if you like. After Dom #3, I knew I had what I needed: a storyline that would grab the public's fancy and give it a right good shake.

His next comment brought me back from the reminiscence.

"Don't you miss it?" he asked in that warm velvet voice.

"No, I don't. Truthfully, I only got into the life to do the research for the book. I'm not so broken that I need someone to punish me to assuage my own demons."

"That was all just an ACT?"

"Of course. I had decided three doms was my limit when I first got into it. Now I'm in a happy and committed lesbian relationship, and my life couldn't be any better. Oh, and before you ask, yes, she knows all about what I did. So I trust you will not contact me again."

_Checkmate._


	2. 2 - Legal Game

A/N: Thank you, reviewers, for your kind and encouraging words. This was meant as a one-shot, but perhaps there is … more … to the story.

Disclaimer: EL James owns all the lovely characters in her Fifty Shades trilogy. I merely borrow them for some fun.

I'm pacing in my office, my 9 o'clock about to show up. I can't get that call last night out of my mind. How could she do this to me? How could I have been so wrong about her? I pride myself on my ability to read people, but I've never been able to read her. Well, that's not entirely true, I smile to myself. I could read her body well enough.

Unbidden, memory flares and I again see her in my playroom, huddled helpless in the rope's cruel and artistic embrace, rough hemp encasing pale flawless skin, the knots caressing precise nerve bundles giving both pleasure and pain. I wield the whip with wicked precision, laying savage kisses on her exposed flesh, her mewling cries fueling my intense desire for her.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head trying to throw off the grip of that haunting recollection. I take a deep shaky breath, scrambling for control. God, she could always do that to me, push me to the edge. Even the memories of her still exert power over me. Such a dichotomy – to be so in control, to be so controlled by her at the same time. It was no wonder I wanted more with her. No matter what I did to her, her submission was somehow never … complete, I suppose. She gave me her body but there something - her mind, her thoughts, I don't know – some elemental part of her that never submitted. I can't name it, but I felt it. And I _wanted _it.

The intercom on my desk phone chirped.

"Mr. Abramson is here for your 9 o'clock."

"Send him in."

We shook hands, sat. Abramson was head legal counsel and has been with me since nearly the beginning. Well, at least from the point where I could afford him. He was also the only one I trusted with my personal matters. He was the author of the non-disclosure agreement and contract I used for my submissives. How fortunate for me to have found such a sharp legal mind that went along with a taste for some of the same things I enjoyed. I noticed him looking anywhere but directly at me, and his posture indicated nervousness. His whole demeanor hinted at bad news.

"You looked at the book?"

"I did."

"And?" I didn't appreciate having to draw it out of him.

"I don't believe we can do anything. The book has been published and has been widely distributed. It's billed as only a work of fiction, nothing more. There are no actual names used in the book, not even initials to hint at real identities, and no descriptions of actual places. There's no dedication page, no acknowledgements. Nothing revelatory."

"There has to be _some_ way to get control of this!"

"My expert recommendation is to do nothing. _Nothing_!" he repeated when my eyes went wide.

"What if I were to buy the publishing company?"

I saw him frown, rub his fingers on his forehead, probably trying to forestall one of his frequent migraines.

"For one thing, Adrianna … er, Ms. Cameron, is working with one of the largest publishing houses in the US, possibly by design. For another, and this is even more critical, should you make any move, try to block the book, attempt in any way to deny involvement, anything at all would be akin to opening the front door to media speculation and inviting the buzzards in."

"But..."

"Look, you pay me to keep you protected. That is exactly what I'm trying to do here. Any action on your part, anything at all, and you will make yourself a target. This book is the hottest thing to hit the media in some time, and speculation is running rampant as to the real identities of the characters. My expert opinion is to ignore it, do nothing, and keep your mouth shut."

I grit my teeth, intensely disliking his tone, yet knowing he was giving it to me straight. I didn't like it, but I appreciated it.

"Perhaps you're right. I just hate feeling backed into a corner like this."

"I understand. But she's engineered this brilliantly. She'd have made a damned fine lawyer."

I smiled wryly – that was high praise from Abramson, and he was a hard man to impress.

"Fine. I'll take it under advisement."

An hour later I'm sitting at my desk facing out the windows, my thoughts still gravitating to Adrianna. The very first sub I'd had under contract in my playroom at Escala. I remember her signing the contract, how she'd listed so many things under soft limits that at first I'd worried she couldn't service my expectations. But that teasing look in her eyes, that almost-smile taunting me, challenging me as she set the pen down with a flourish. Thinking back on it, perhaps that was part of her game: so many soft limits was the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of an angry bull. An audacious dare: "Make me." God, how could I have been played so easily?

The intercom chirped again.

"I have Mr. Welch for you on line 2."

Finally! I grabbed for the phone, eager for some good news, something I could use against her.

"Welch? Find anything?"

"Nothing useful. After she .. left your employ, she was a model student, and apparently wrote that damned book in her spare time. She shopped it to only the one publishing house, and they signed her. Her record is squeaky clean, not even a traffic ticket or parking violation. It gets worse."

Crap!

"How much worse?"

"The book is doing so well they've offered her an advance on the next book, with a multi-book deal in the works. Worse yet, there's been some noise out of Hollywood – there's building interest in turning the book into a movie."

I think Abramson's migraine must have been contagious – I can feel the stabbing pain begin behind my eyes.

"Anything else?"

"No. Should I keep digging?"

"Yes, but drop the priority."

I dropped the phone back into the cradle, sat at my desk and rested my head in my hands. Cripes, a movie? How the fuck could they make a movie of _that?_ Seven-eighths of that book was rated 'X'. Or worse.

I stabbed the intercom button.

"Andrea! Contact Bastille. Get me an appointment for today."


	3. 3 - Haunted by the past

A/N – To clarify the timeline, Christian is still working his way through the 15.

Disclaimer: EL James retains the rights to her characters. I merely borrow them for fun.

* * *

Late evening finds Christian hunched over his desk, again untangling the intricacies of a forensic accounting report on the next company in his acquisition crosshairs. The sky has long ago darkened, and the bright flare of lights in the surrounding buildings has already begun to diminish from the late hour. His empty dinner plate sits, disregarded, at the corner of the desk. He squints at the spreadsheets, the endless columns of numbers and accounts, flicking between different pages, comparing, analyzing; a predator stalking the secretive truths.

A chirp from his blackberry interrupts. He seizes it, gives an annoyed glance at the caller id – Elena. With a heavy sigh and a rake of his hand through his hair, he decides to answer.

"Hello, Elena."

"Christian! How are you? I haven't heard from you in quite some time now." Her voice is a purr. He remembers how that honeyed contralto used to bring him nearly to the edge of orgasm; now it was, well, somewhat irritating. Still, manners were ingrained in him.

"I'm fine, Elena. Just busy with work." He sighs again, wondering what prompted the call.

"Always so much work! Life is passing you by and you've got your nose too deeply buried in a spreadsheet to notice," she scolded.

"If you haven't noticed, I'm trying to run a company." He willed her to get to the point.

"And I'm certain you can do that so much more effectively when you don't sound so exasperated." Ah, that gave him a clue to her reason for calling. "I believe I've finally found a new potential candidate to alleviate some of that exasperation. It's been what, nearly 9 weeks since you dismissed the last one."

A feral smile tugged at his mouth as he mulled it over. Elena was extremely well connected within the BDSM community, and extremely adept at matching needs to wants, then making the proper introductions. His own specific and extreme requirements, well known by Elena of course, ruled out a good number of potentials. He thought of them as "pattycake submissives" - their desire for and tolerance of pain maxing out on the low end of the spectrum. Thank fuck Elena knew him well enough to weed them out, not even bother him with a pointless interview. Also eliminated were any prospects unable to handle the cane or the whip. Only the rare few who's tastes ran to the extreme were considered; and of those an even smaller subset matching his physical preferences were put on the short list for an interview.

"What's her name?"

"Lisa Westridge."

"Experienced?"

"Christian," she chided, "I wouldn't waste your time with anything less."

"Fine. Email me her file. If the background check clears her, I'll contact you to set up the interview."

"Good. Don't wait too long on this one, dear boy. She's a jewel," her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "No limits."

"None?" He _really_ liked the sound of that.

"You have first pick, but like I mentioned, don't wait too long to decide. She has relocated here from Los Angeles and is eagerly looking for a new Dom; someone who is, in her words, 'intense'."

"I specialize in 'intense'," he growled.

"I know you do." The crooning voice sounded almost wistful. "Her vitals are on their way as we speak."

He ended the call, tossed the phone carelessly on the large desk, then leaned back and stretched. He _needed_ another sub, and needed one badly. Elena was right; she knew him so well. There was too much shit whirling in his head from this latest takeover attempt, leaving him craving the measured violence of the playroom, the extreme sexual release that acted as a safety valve for all this uncertainty, irritation, and the ever-growing anger he bottled within.

Rubbing his irritated eyes, his thoughts flashed back to Adrianna. Jeez, as if the pending takeover wasn't enough, now he needed a new sub to relieve the tension caused courtesy of a prior sub. How much more fucked up could his life get? The ping of a new email brought him back. It was the promised file on one Lisa Westridge, and took but a moment to forward it to Welch. It was late and his mind drifted again; seemed that Elena had gotten his concentration off-track.

Adianna's dazzling blue eyes still haunted him, a window to the mischief in her soul. Every sub since had had brown eyes. Some were better than others, but none matched her natural beauty, her sheer brazen cheekiness. He felt himself stirring yet again, the disciplinarian in him salivating at the memory. He rapped a fist sharply on the desk. This had to stop! Enough with her! He slammed his laptop shut, headed for the kitchen then detoured to the bar for a glass of bourbon.

Sipping the liquid fire, he stood in the darkened room, peering out the windows of his aerie. Frustration and lust fire-danced in his blood. Even the unusually intense workout with Bastille had done little to take the edge off, despite a few good bruises. His grip tightened dangerously on the glass before he recklessly tossed back the brown liquor, swallowed it all in a gulp. He left the glass atop the breakfast bar, quickly heading for the playroom, knowing damned well if he didn't do something to tire his body even more, the nightmares would come early and set up shop.

He stepped inside, slammed the door shut behind him. Here he was enveloped in the red womb; he was safe, he was in control. The rest of the world didn't exist at this moment as he breathed in the clean scent, calming himself, focusing. It took skill, consummate skill, to wield his power in here, and skill required practice.

He walked over to the collection of black whips decorating the wall, handmade art promising pain, selected the heavy bullwhip. He looped the thick coils around his neck, then walked over to the cabinet, selected three sheets of copier paper and a tape dispenser from the bottom drawer. Going over to the wooden cross, he taped the sheets along the outside edge such that only a bit of each page was supported by the wood, leaving the rest of it to dangle – about to be sacrificed. He tossed the tape dispenser aside, lifted the coils, dropped them to the floor holding only the thick handle. A few testing flicks and the leather uncurled, measuring the distance. He adjusted his stance, hauled back on the malevolent weapon, snapped it forward at the center of the cross, expertly tagging the wood with just the tip.

The hefty whip required a great deal of strength and coordination, and he desperately needed that exertion. Again and again, he drew back, launched it forward, warming his muscles, reveling in that satisfying whoosh and _snap_. When the first drops of sweat appeared, he aimed for his targets, stroke by stroke nipping at the paper edges, whittling them away.

Nearly 35 minutes later, his tshirt was soaked and plastered to his skin, and the papers were a thin line of ragged shreds hugging the tape. He paused, his chest heaving and his shoulder burning from the effort, hopeful that it would be enough to keep his demon nightmares at bay.

Abramson's words still swirled in his head: "Do nothing." How the hell was he supposed to do nothing when every cell of his body screamed to take action... to take _her? _He re-coiled the length of black leather, returned it to it's rightful place, the sweat beginning to chill him. He turned off the light, carefully locked the door on exiting, headed for a shower.

Billows of steam seemed to conjure more memories. He was again seated with her at the table in his club, the drama replaying in his mind like a film loop. She was so elegant in that long midnight blue gown, wore it like a second skin. Every male there, and even some of the women, had openly lusted after her, some by outright stares others by secretive glances. It had made him feel so powerful, knowing she belonged only to him. After the meal he'd talked about renewing their contract, explained the incentives. What woman could resist was he was offering? She'd listened carefully, a smile teasing her baby soft lips. He'd slipped the velvet box out of his pocket, slid it slowly across the tablecloth to her, so sure that this would seal the deal. She'd gasped at the rainbows thrown by the necklace and matching earrings on opening the lid, staring with wide-eyed surprise. He'd already been picturing her in the playroom, wearing the diamonds and nothing else.

Soaked from the biting hot spray, memories rendered him bone cold and he fell back against the shower wall, shivering, tensing at what came next. Her eyes reflected rainbows as they slowly lifted to his. He watched every little movement, time seemed to slow. He smiled, happy to have so thoroughly surprised her. But as their eyes locked, something changed. He expected to see joy but instead saw coldness and calculation, and an indefinable something that clearly showed she was _not_ a submissive. Her mask had dropped away and it hit him like a loaded punch to the gut, the stunned shock that he'd gotten it so very wrong. Worse yet, after a moment she had simply turned, collected her clutch purse, stood and walked away. Not a word, not a single backward glance. He'd been abandoned again. Betrayed by blue eyes.


End file.
